


Foreign Correspondent

by thegreatpumpkin



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: (Briefly) Clothed Erections, Anal Fingering, First Time, M/M, Marlas was a trade summit instead of a defining battle, Peacetime AU, Rimming, Size Kink, Topping from the Bottom, Undressing Their Partner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 16:06:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6572872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatpumpkin/pseuds/thegreatpumpkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Do you know how disheartening it is to have a foreigner charm your brother, treat you like a friend, and then forget you as soon as he returns home?</i> At Auguste's wedding, Laurent and Damen renew their acquaintance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Foreign Correspondent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notallbees](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notallbees/gifts).



> Slight warning: there is some consensual sex post alcohol consumption. It's hopefully clear in context that the characters are buzzed, not drunk, and that consent would also happen while sober, but just in case, be forewarned.

The summer Damen spent in Marlas was—despite the unwilling separation from Nikandros—one of the happiest of his growing years. He and Auguste had become fast friends, though he was nineteen to Auguste's twenty-five; they did, after all, have quite a lot in common despite the cultural differences. Vere was awfully strange to Akielon eyes, despite their close proximity. Auguste showed him all the jewels of Veretian culture, or at least as many as were available from a border fort during extended trade negotiations. They had both been expected to participate, of course, but with their fathers at the table it wasn't as if either one was called upon to speak very often, and there was abundant free time in which to ride and hunt and discover.

Laurent, Auguste's younger brother, accompanied them from time to time. He clearly idolized Auguste, though he was not cast from the same mold by any stretch. They looked very alike. Laurent was passable enough with a sword, but it was not an innate talent. He practiced ceaselessly, and it was clear to Damen that it was largely for his brother's approval. He did, at least, ride like he'd been born in the saddle. Truth be told, Damen didn't mind him tagging along with them, especially when they rode—Damen had never had a younger brother himself.

By the end of the summer, negotiations were concluded in a way that was largely satisfactory to all parties; and they were all sad to part from one another, though eager to go home to their respective capitals. It was as summers during youth always are: endless and sunlit in memory, seeming half-unreal once normal life resumes.

They had written some. Damen's spoken Veretian was much better than Auguste or Laurent's spoken Akielon, but Laurent dominated them all in written Akielon (even Damen sometimes, who could write well enough but was hardly a poet). Neither Auguste nor Damen had much stamina for personal correspondence, though. Auguste's letters dwindled, until Laurent was carrying all the burden of writing for the Veretian side. Damen kept up replying, somewhat inconsistently, for something like a year afterwards; but at last the affairs of being crown prince in an economically booming nation distracted him away for good. He thought on it occasionally, with a faint shadow of guilt, but he told himself that Laurent was probably relieved not to have to keep up the conversation all on his own anymore.

Much had happened since then. He had, of course, sent a letter of sincere condolence when King Aleron died, accompanied by a suitable coronation gift for Auguste; but he hadn’t been able to get away. Even now he was leaving more than he liked to on Nikandros’ shoulders, however capable they were—but Auguste was getting _married_ , to a Patran princess, no less. Quite aside from the personal, it would be politically prudent to attend the wedding of two bordering nations. (Besides, his father had insisted, which was the last push he needed to do what he’d already been considering.)

Once the decision was made, he found himself looking forward to it with almost boyish excitement. Vere might be strange, but it did have its delights. His good friend, whom he has not seen for many years, was about to be wed; and if nothing else, he hadn’t had a true holiday since his father had begun entrusting him with more responsibility immediately after their return from Marlas.

It would be good for him.

~

Veretians make everything so formal, Damen is half-afraid he’ll have to greet Auguste in some sort of official ritual. But no, despite the many demands on his time (at least, Damen assumes—he’s never been married to know) Auguste has him brought almost immediately, and it is as if they never parted. He crosses the room in a bound and pulls Damen into a rib-cracking embrace, and says, “Ah, the Akielon is here! _Now_ it’s a celebration.”

Damen returns the hug, grinning hugely. “I couldn’t trust all your fussy courtiers to mark the occasion properly.”

He’s stepping back when, over Auguste’s shoulder, he sees the slighter figure standing a few steps behind. It knocks the wind out of him.

“ _Laurent_?” The younger prince of Vere had been a pretty boy, with softer, sweeter features than his brother, but now—now he is _devastating_. Damen loses his composure entirely, unable to quite reconcile the sweet-faced (if wicked-minded) child he had known with this...this…

“Damianos.” Laurent greets him coolly, with only a faint smile and a quirk of his eyebrows to acknowledge the reaction.

“You—” Damen falters, then stumbles into, “You’re looking well.”

Auguste snorts and shoulders him hard. “Don’t let him fool you with that pretty face. He may look like a paragon, but he’s only gotten more devious. Remember how he tricked you into handing over your sigil ring and made a royal Akielon decree about the treatment of horses?”

Damen certainly does. “That’s still in effect, I hope you know. I’m not sure my father ever noticed.”

Laurent shrugs, unperturbed. “It was a good decree. I note Akielos is doing a roaring trade in well-cared-for horseflesh these days.”

Auguste shakes his head and grins, indulgently. “It’s like that, but worse. I promise, the shine will wear off as soon as you realize we’re all pieces on his game board.” Despite the words, he is clearly brimming with pride at Laurent’s cleverness. “In the meantime, please remember that’s my baby brother you’re ogling. I do like you, Damen, I’d hate to have to threaten you.”

Damen folds his arms, trying for nonchalance. “I was not _ogling_. I haven’t seen either of you in six years. It’s just that Laurent has changed more—” he glances briefly at Laurent, trying to remember the word in Veretian, then realizes that was a mistake if he wants to deny the _ogling_ accusation— “dramatically than you have. Of course I was surprised.”

Laurent gives Damen a long, unimpressed look, then smirks at Auguste. “You’re a matched set. Neither of you can dissemble worth a damn.”

~

It isn’t like Marlas, of course. The activity in the palace is constant, and Auguste is at the center of much of it; after that first informal greeting, Damen mostly sees him at meals and at the official court functions which will, eventually, culminate in a royal wedding. They are able to talk some; he is introduced to the Patran princess, Damali, who is extremely average-looking but savagely funny, and compliments Damen in ways that puff up his pride. But mostly, he finds himself seated by some other foreign dignitary, making polite conversation while the King of Vere makes his wedding preparations.

He also, frequently, gets shuffled together with Laurent.

He doesn’t quite know what to make of Laurent—growing into his looks is only the start of what’s changed in this boy who, for one entire summer, felt like a little brother to him. Laurent is both polite and engaging, but there’s a coolness there, a distance. Damen can’t tell whether it’s part and parcel of this new Laurent or whether it’s specific to himself.

He tries anyway. He’s never had a little brother, and with the moods Kastor gets into these days, it often feels like he doesn’t have an older brother either. Besides, there is something in him that wants to witness Laurent’s much-touted machinations with his own eyes, even if it means he is the victim of them.

And, well. It’s not precisely a bad view, either.

They are sitting side-by-side at breakfast. Many of the Veretian diners have their pets at table, but Laurent, Damen has noticed, does not keep any. Even Auguste has a dark-haired beauty called Yves, though of course Yves is making himself scarce during the pre-wedding festivities (Patrans do things differently; it might cause offense). But Laurent, nearly alone of the Veretians, sits with Damen on one side and a Veretian councilor on the other, no pet in sight.

Damen mentions it to Laurent, idly, because he’s curious, and because Veretians don’t seem to have any sort of taboo about discussing one another’s pets.

Laurent gives him a considering look, then—to Damen’s surprise—answers him in barely-accented Akielon. “Haven’t you heard the gossip, Damianos? No, I suppose you wouldn’t have, they only say it when my brother isn’t present.”

Damen supposes no one sitting nearby speaks Akielon; that suits him well enough. “What gossip?”

“They say I’m frigid.” Laurent delivers the news like a comment on the weather, then eats a slice of peach. “There used to be wagers on who could—”

Damen’s been trying hard not to consider the topic that’s about to be under discussion, so he interrupts, quickly. “Nice that you have Auguste to defend you. If Kastor heard someone sullying my sexual reputation, he’d probably elbow me in the ribs and join in.” He misses those times, actually. At least when Kastor teases him, it feels like they’re brothers again, instead of strangers orbiting around the same father.

Laurent is not privy to his private regrets. “Everyone else always asks me if it’s true.”

Damen, feeling vaguely as if he’s being goaded into some diplomatic faux-pas, doesn’t take the bait. “It isn’t my business, is it?”

Laurent gives him a sharp smile. “Not if you don’t make it your business.” And then, abruptly, he turns to the man on his other side, and begins a conversation in Veretian again, leaving Damen to entertain himself.

~

On the night before the wedding, Damen finally gets to see more of Auguste. It is, of course, a public bit of revelry; but it’s also an informal affair, which means that Auguste can be less equitable with his time. He mostly spends it with Laurent and Damen, drinking and trading playful insults. Laurent is in fine form, reducing everyone around them with a few sly words, including his brother; Auguste laughs uproariously, especially when the comments are at his expense.

It is a good night, a fitting farewell to Auguste’s bachelorhood; and at the end of it, between the two of them, they manage to get Auguste to his rooms without too much incident.

He is a joyful drunk, telling raunchy stories in far too loud a voice for a man who is getting married in the morning, telling them each how much he loves them. Damen laughs and claps him on the back and slings him effortlessly down onto a chaise; Laurent has a long-suffering expression on his face as he pours them all cups of water to offset the wine, but Damen thinks he detects a hint of amusement beneath it.

They manage to coax some water into Auguste, though perhaps not enough that he won’t have an aching head in the morning. Then again, given how much wine went into the surprisingly robust Princess Damali over the course of the evening, Damen thinks they’ll probably be united in morning misery as well as in matrimony. A few minutes later Auguste is passed out and snoring on the chaise.

Damen isn’t ready to retire yet, but he doubts he can persuade Laurent back to the celebrations. Instead he lingers, taking his time draining his own cup. Laurent doesn’t seem in any rush to leave either; he takes a seat near Damen on the long sofa, turning towards him with a small smile.

“How do you think we did? A proper sendoff for his last night unwed?” He asks in Akielon; Damen isn’t sure why, when there are no courtiers to confuse.

“You were there. What do you think?” Damen has done a fair job keeping his eyes to himself so far, but it’s more difficult now, with the wine warming his blood and Laurent, lit by firelight, his all-too-appealing mouth shaping the sounds of Damen’s native tongue.

“I’m not the best judge of such things.” From anyone else, the admission would sound shy, or sheepish. From Laurent, it sounds smug; as if not being able to judge the quality of a drunken celebration is a mark in his favor. He is insufferable, and all Damen wants is to suffer him.

“Your brother seemed to enjoy it, and no one caused a diplomatic incident.” He drains the rest of his water; it is too warm in this room. “I’d call that success by any measure.”

Laurent does not seem to feel the heat. Damen cannot help contrasting him with Auguste, who lost his jacket sometime early in the evening, and is now sprawled across the chaise with his shirt untucked and one sleeve partially unlaced. He cannot imagine Laurent so dishevelled, but he _is_ suddenly imagining Laurent without his jacket—Laurent in the fine, nearly-transparent Veretian shirt, not half-unlaced but deliberately folded open at the throat and wrists.

“Damen,” Laurent says— _Damen_ , not Damianos. He drags his eyes back up to Laurent’s face.

“Are you betrothed too?” he blurts out, because the wine has made his tongue a traitor. He doesn’t even know where the thought comes from. One moment, he is thinking of Laurent’s pale throat, and the next he is making clumsy small talk. “A Patran princess of your own?”

Laurent actually looks surprised, if deeply amused. “First you’re undressing me with your eyes, then you’re trying to marry me off. Is this how Akielon courtship goes?” He gazes levelly at Damen. “Perhaps you should have continued our correspondence all those years ago. Then you would, no doubt, know all the news from Vere, and my Patran princesses. Or lack thereof.”

 _Courtship_. The word blazes like phosphorus fire in his mind, bright and sudden. It hardly matters that Laurent is mocking him. _Of course_ , he thinks, because he has pushed Laurent into the ‘unattainable’ category in his mind ever since arriving, even before Auguste’s joking warning. But if he were to _court_ Laurent—take all these warm, longing feelings and shape them into an offering, himself into a supplicant for Laurent’s attention? Maybe _unattainable_ is still true, if Laurent is not amenable, but it’s worth the effort at least. He’ll have to ask Auguste’s permission, probably, but _courting_ is a very different thing than lustful gazing. He thinks it might not be too much to hope for.

“Oh,” he says, coming back into the moment when Laurent mentions their former correspondence. “Do I owe penance for that? You’re right, I should have. Letters are not my strength.” He wonders if Nikandros can teach him how to write a love letter. Nikandros is good with words; he’s as much a diplomat as a soldier.

“Clearly not. I imagine you had more important calls on your time.” Laurent says it lightly, with absolutely no sign of offense at the notion, but Damen is dismayed.

“No! No, of course not.” He tries to think of how to explain his own shortcomings. “I felt I should...match the level of your letters, but I never had your wit.” He gives Laurent a helpless smile. “Do you know how disheartening it is to have an adolescent foreigner write more engaging and understandable letters in your own language than you do?”

It’s a small shift, but Laurent’s body language...opens, a little. Damen thinks he said the right thing, but it’s hard to tell, really. Laurent is a mystery that he is only beginning to grasp the scope of. “Do you know how disheartening it is to have a foreigner charm your brother, treat you like a friend, and then forget you as soon as he returns home?”

It could be a criticism, an insult, an expression of distrust. But Damen thinks it is something different. To admit that he was hurt by it—Laurent is letting his guard down, Damen thinks. Offering a glimpse of vulnerability, even a long-ago one.

“I didn’t forget you,” Damen says, moving closer.

Laurent does not move at all, though his eyes follow. Damen is near enough to hear him breathing, slow and deliberate; Laurent blinks, once, his long pale eyelashes making soft shadows on his cheeks. This close, it is easier to remember how slight Laurent is. Standing, his head would only come to Damen’s shoulder. Damen hesitates—it would be too easy, given their sizes, their relative status, for this to feel like pressure.

“May I?” he says softly, after a long pause.

“Damen,” Laurent says, annoyed, and then—realizing nothing short of unambiguous agreement will budge him— “ _yes_. Obviously yes.”

Damen is still careful. He leans in, closing the distance to press his lips softly to Laurent’s. His hands—he likes to touch while he kisses, normally, to get his hands in a lover’s hair or on the back of their neck or just explore the lines of their body—but that isn’t right for Laurent, and it takes him a moment to work out what he should do with his hands. Laurent’s own start to lift, uncertainly; and then Damen’s catching them lightly in his own, holding them in a grip Laurent can easily break away from should he so choose. He lets his thumbs stroke—not quite the wrists, Laurent’s wrists are still hidden behind the laces of those damnable Veretian sleeves—but the spot just above the cuffs, the spot between palm and wrist, and Laurent draws a surprised breath and opens his mouth against Damen’s.

Damen realizes, with a guilty jolt, that Laurent has not done this before, or at the very least not enough to have any idea how it’s supposed to go. Which probably means not at all—from what he can tell, Laurent never settles for being mediocre at anything once he’s started. He should call a halt to this, but the dizzying thought of being the one to teach Laurent how to kiss—how to do a whole host of things beyond kissing—tramples his better judgment and leaves it for dead. He tips his head a little, nudges Laurent gently until he shifts to a better angle; and then proceeds to use all the artistry and patience he has ever learned, demonstrating by slow fervent motions of lips and tongue how exactly this is meant to work.

Laurent is silent, but he trembles beneath some kisses and pulls away, breath catching at others. Damen is unsurprised to find him a quick study; before long it is not at all one-sided, and if Laurent doesn’t quite have the proficiency, his attempts are increasingly on the mark. At some point Damen’s hands move of their own accord, coming up to rest featherlight against the skin above Laurent’s high collar. Laurent lays one of his flat-palmed against Damen’s chest, and curves the other over the place where Damen’s neck and shoulder meet. It’s a good thing, the best thing, this slow gentle intensity. Damen feels as if he’s drowning in it.

At last, Damen pulls back. If he doesn’t get hold of himself soon, this will go too far, too fast. Laurent, he notes, does not look at all like a blushing youth after his first kiss. Instead, his expression is intense—pleased, but not satisfied. He watches Damen for a moment, their breathing loud in the silence. Then he smiles in a way that pulls the floor out from under Damen, and leans forward again.

“No, wait—” Damen says, because it’s too soon, he doesn’t have himself under control yet.

“Ah,” says Laurent knowingly, and Damen has a brief unrealistic hope that he’ll be given time to recover. Instead, Laurent begins unlacing his jacket, and Damen briefly loses track of everything else.

He stares, heart hammering, until Laurent glances up from beneath those long lashes at him. “I thought you’d want to help, given the way you were looking at it earlier. Or were you simply admiring our fashions?” A little vee of throat has opened up at the top of his collar, a glimpse of snowy linen beneath it. Damen knows he shouldn’t. He half-reaches out, then changes his mind; but before he can take the hand back, Laurent moves into it, pushing forward until Damen finds himself pressed against the backrest with Laurent kneeling over his lap, two of Damen’s fingertips resting against the hollow of Laurent’s throat.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he registers the unfairness of it, that someone this inexperienced can be so deliberately, infuriatingly arousing. His own first time is a fond memory, but he’d had all the composure of a startled hare and only the sex appeal of the sweetly naive.

The only thing in the _front_ of his mind, though, is the feel of Laurent’s skin beneath his fingertips. He pulls at the laces, trying to keep himself in check; Laurent laughs softly and reaches for the pin at his shoulder. He gets it free long before Damen manages the laces, and the chiton falls open to where it’s belted at the waist, leaving Damen’s chest bare.

“What exactly do they _feed_ you in Akielos?” Laurent murmurs, trailing light fingers down from Damen’s shoulders. Damen shivers. “I thought you might look less imposing without your drape, but it’s the opposite. Maybe this is why Akielos doesn’t have any mountains, you’ve carved them all down into the royal family.”

Damen is too distracted for banter. The laces come free at last; he pushes the jacket open, though not off, because there are still the sleeves to be dealt with. His eyes are drawn again to that triangle of open throat above the shirt collar, and then he finds his mouth pressed to the spot, without having ever made a conscious decision to lean forward.

Laurent, for the first time, loses his composure. Perhaps he did not see it coming, or perhaps he’s simply that sensitive; either way, his head falls back, his body arching. He makes a short, sharp noise—barely loud enough to hear even in the quiet room, but Damen can feel it vibrate beneath his mouth. He plays his tongue against the skin as if he can taste the sound, and Laurent’s breath hitches violently, fingers suddenly digging in where they grip Damen’s shoulders.

He doesn’t mean to escalate so soon, it’s just that—well, in the chiton, it’s easy to tell how hard he is, the loose fabric tented up unambiguously between them. But Veretian clothing is—in this as well as in every other regard—infuriatingly restrictive. When he presses a hand against the placket of Laurent’s trousers, it’s with a half-formed notion of making sure he is as invested in the proceedings as Damen is.

But then Damen’s hand is inarguably on Laurent’s cock, fabric or no. He is palming the Prince of Vere— _the king’s little brother_ —through his trousers, in the king’s own sitting room, with the king in question passed out a few feet away. The realization chills his ardor somewhat, and he draws back quickly, nearly unbalancing Laurent.

“We can’t do this,” he says, when Laurent frowns down at him. “Not here, not with—”

Laurent glances over his shoulder. “He won’t wake up, not when he had that much to drink. We’ll have a hard enough time stirring him in the morning.” Turning back, he lets his eyes fall rather deliberately to Damen’s lap. “And I don’t believe relocating to your rooms, or mine, would be the best idea at present, given the number of foreign dignitaries potentially wandering the corridors. Would it soothe your conscience if we manage to wrangle Auguste into the bedroom first and shut the door?”

No. Maybe. “I—”

Before Damen can articulate whatever thought he’s about to express, Laurent leans forward and brushes the lightest of kisses over his mouth. It has the intended effect. Damen knows he’s helplessly starstruck, but it doesn’t change a thing.

He sighs, pushing up and setting Laurent easily on his feet. He’s gratified to see how Laurent pauses, startled and pleased to be so easily lifted, before remembering their purpose.

Even with Auguste in a dead slumber, it isn’t actually that difficult to maneuver him. He’s bigger than Laurent, but Damen still dwarfs him, and Laurent helps manage the awkwardness of his brother’s dangling limbs. Slightly more difficult is maneuvering him without the chiton ending up on the floor, but Damen manages that too, deliberately ignoring Laurent’s snort of amusement when he has to hurriedly haul the belt up one-handed or lose it entirely. He eases Auguste onto the bed, and Laurent conscientiously strips his boots off; then they close the door behind them, and Laurent pushes Damen down onto the sofa again.

Whatever reserve of patience he was drawing on before is, apparently, used up. In a moment he has Damen’s chiton unbelted and then tossed aside. He straddles Damen’s bare thighs as he unfastens his own sleeves, much more efficiently than Damen could, then shrugs the jacket off, laying it aside.

It’s hard to reconcile this Laurent with the boy he knew six years ago. Oh, there were hints then; he’s always been whip-smart, with a tendency towards manipulation. The sweetness he’d had then is far, far beneath the surface now, though Damen thinks it’s still there. But Laurent at thirteen was—uncertain, hesitant, desperate for his brother’s approval. For Damen’s too, he realizes in retrospect, thinking of how much Laurent’s Akielon has improved since they last met, and how his accent is far too highborn to be copied from an everyday tutor.

This graceful, commanding Laurent is something different altogether. Perhaps it’s because Auguste so clearly adores him; though that’s always been clear to Damen, it might not have been obvious to a younger Laurent. He clearly isn’t concerned with gaining Damen’s approval any longer—on the contrary, he seems to take it as a given. Damen has no idea what passed between then and now to bring about the change, but he resolves to find out, to tease out every detail he has missed by letting their correspondence lapse.

But then Laurent’s hand is on Damen’s cock, and any hope of making sensible conversation flees him.

“Tell me,” Laurent breathes, and Damen looks up at him blankly. “What you like.” His hand begins to move, and Damen shudders helplessly, then reaches to guide him. Laurent smacks his hand away. “With your _words_ ,” he says sharply, and Damen groans and tries to find his voice.

“You can—you can grip harder.” Laurent tightens his fist precisely, as if he knows already exactly what Damen wants; Damen wonders wildly if he does, somehow, and the game is only to make him say it out loud. “Slow down a little, when you—there, oh, just like that. _Laurent._ ” Laurent twitches a little when Damen says his name, a motion that would be imperceptible if it didn’t reflect in the movement of his wrist, just for a moment. Damen says it again, “ _Laurent,_ ” just to see Laurent’s eyes flutter closed, the brief pleasure on his face before tightly-controlled smugness overtakes it again.

It’s too good. It won’t do. He’s too worked up; if he doesn’t get Laurent undressed soon, he’s going to come without seeing another inch of skin, and—at least this time, the first time—he wants it to last a little longer, wants to come with Laurent as drowned in bliss as he is. He catches Laurent’s wrist to halt him. “Show me how to undo these,” he says urgently, pressing a hand again to the front of Laurent’s trousers, and Laurent obligingly guides his fingers. It still takes an unbearable amount of time to get them open, and Laurent has to move off of him to step out of them.

But then, oh, then he is back, bare ass against Damen’s thighs and bare knees bracketing his hips. Damen pushes his shirt up and off, pulling so impatiently that it tears a little at the cuffs, and then Laurent is fully naked in his lap, throat and wrists and everything else on glorious display. He drinks in the sight, forgetting his need for a moment, or at least as long as Laurent will let him.

“Are you going to do something,” Laurent asks, and there is a hard edge to his voice that speaks of tight control, “or do I need to instruct you?”

Damen can’t help it—he laughs, at the _cheek_ of it, at the sheer Laurent-ness of the demand. “You can play schoolmaster some other time,” he manages, then seizes Laurent’s hand and brings it to his mouth, pressing heated kisses to the long-awaited wrist. He knows enough now to expect how Laurent jerks in his grip, to know there will be a little noise before Laurent remembers to repress it. He doesn’t expect Laurent to say his name, urgently, insistently. “Damen— _Damianos_!”

Auguste is never going to forgive him.

He doesn’t care.

Laurent tastes clean, a faint trace of soap lingering—he must have bathed just before the evening’s revelry. Damen licks at the tender skin beneath his mouth, nips at it, and Laurent quakes in his lap. How can he be so sensitive? How can Damen be this lucky? He keeps one hand curled around Laurent’s—Laurent’s, fine-boned and dwarfed by Damen’s larger one—so that he can keep his mouth pressed to Laurent’s wrist, but the other hand fumbles into place around their cocks, stroking them together. Laurent’s body tightens; Damen thinks for a moment he’s going to come.

Then suddenly Laurent is scooting backwards, gasping like a drowning man. Damen fears he’s done something wrong, that he’s hurt Laurent or pushed him too far.

But then Laurent’s eyes flash, and he says, deliberately, “No. Not like that. I’m not finished with you.”

Damen has given up any hope of controlling this encounter. “Whatever you want from me, you can have it. Laurent—”

Laurent sits back, considering him. “Do you know, it’s the fashion for Veretian pets to have vials of oil incorporated into their jewelry? It seems a little distasteful, but I suppose it _is_ convenient.”

Damen blinks at him, then decides there are times when even he cannot be reasonably expected to humor Laurent’s tangents. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. What does that mean?”

“Keep up,” Laurent says, and opens his hand.

Damen has no idea where it comes from. Laurent was most definitely _not_ holding it a moment ago. But when he opens his fingers, a necklace spills out, the pendant dangling. Damen recognizes it as one of the ones that Auguste’s pet Yves was wearing earlier on; at the time he’d mistaken it for a crystal of some sort, but he can see now that it’s a small bottle of colored glass. _Oil_ , he thinks, and then—

“Oh. _No_. Laurent, I’m going to hurt you. If you’ve never—”

Laurent plays the chain through his fingers, making the pendant swing idly. “So you’ve never been with a virgin?”

“I have, but—”

“And you didn’t know how not to hurt them? I pity your partners, then.” He lifts his hand so the the vial hangs just at eye level between them, watching it with a half-smile.

“ _Laurent._ ” Damen catches it in his fist, pushing it to the side so he can look Laurent in the eye. “I’m not...small.”

“I noticed.” Laurent notices again, just for good measure, or else to make sure Damen is as embarrassed as it is possible to be for this conversation.

Damen forges ahead, nonetheless. “If we—when we—I want the time, and a proper bed, to do it right. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Laurent leans in a little, still amused, snatching the bottle away. “So—whatever I want from you, but with caveats. That’s not very romantic, Damen, as declarations go.”

“I can make you feel so good,” Damen hears himself say, because the only alternative is walking away and he _can’t_. “Better than if we did this tonight, I promise. I know plenty of other ways to—if you’ll just let me—”

“No need to brag,” Laurent says, shifting in close again. “Would you like to wager? Get me ready. Do whatever you need to do to make it work.” He pauses, his mouth a hair’s breadth from Damen’s. “If you can make me come before you’re inside me, then we’ll wait as long as you like.”

Damen makes a choked, helpless sound and kisses him, though even now he is gentle; Laurent laughs softly into his mouth, letting a hand rest against the back of Damen’s neck. Damen is fighting a losing battle and he knows it. “Give me the oil,” he sighs; Laurent laughs more and presses it into his palm.

Laurent lets him draw back from the kisses, though he keeps a hand on the back of Damen’s neck. Damen uncorks the tiny bottle and tips a drop of oil onto his thumb, then touches it to his tongue, testingly. It’s nothing but olive oil, probably imported from Akielos. Good.

Laurent looks nonplussed, though he covers it with mockery. “It’s for lubrication, Damen, not for drinking. I’m beginning to be suspicious of your so-called experience.”

Damen only smiles. He tips a little more over his fingers—not enough for any kind of penetration, just a little bit of slickness—then recorks the vial. In a fit of playfulness, he loops the chain over Laurent’s neck. “Hold that for me,” he says, then kisses Laurent again, slow and sweet.

His clean hand slides around Laurent to settle in the small of his back, easing him forward until they are pressed together. Laurent settles sweetly against him; his skin burns where they touch. Damen spreads his knees apart, so that Laurent has to widen his stance where he kneels over him, giving him better access. He slides oiled fingers between Laurent’s cheeks, rubbing easily over Laurent’s entrance, light slick strokes at first. When Laurent starts to shift into the touches, little unconscious movements of his hips, Damen presses more firmly, rubbing the oil in, massaging the muscle.

Laurent breaks away and rests his head against Damen’s shoulder, eyes closed and breathing uneven. Damen turns his head to press lips against Laurent’s temple, his fingers continuing to tease, pressing a little harder on every pass without ever breaching Laurent’s body. At last, Laurent gasps out, “Are you stalling for time? _Do_ it, Damen, for the love of Vere.”

Damen is amused by the patriotic turn of phrase. He’s finding Vere quite enchanting at the moment, of course, but he isn’t particularly compelled by love of the _country_ per se, so it doesn’t move him as much as Laurent might have hoped. Instead he slows his stroking, lightens the touch, tracing the small circle now with a single fingertip.

“ _Damen,_ ” Laurent hisses again. Damen takes pity on him, kissing him again before pushing him back.

“Hands and knees,” he says, and Laurent’s eyebrows jump, though he moves to the seat beside Damen and gets in position.

“All that protesting, only to have me bent over in under five minutes. A little anticlimactic, if you’ll excuse the pun.”

“You talk too much,” Damen murmurs, and then, “Spread your legs more.”

“It is one of my chief vices,” Laurent responds, because he can’t help wanting the last word. Damen lets him have it—there are other uses for his tongue at the moment.

Truth be told, he hasn’t done this before. Nor, for that matter, has he had it done to him. There is a...certain tone to the sexual interactions considered appropriate for a prince. But he’s seen it done, between pets, between slaves—between men of equal status. He’s seen those on the receiving end tremble, and shake, and beg. He’s seen how easily they are taken afterwards.

It seems like a good time to learn.

The hair between Laurent’s cheeks is soft and fine, which makes the task more appealing than it might be otherwise. (Damen thinks, idly, that he would pity anyone trying to do this for him.) He grips Laurent’s hips first, to keep him in place when he inevitably startles; then spreads his cheeks as best he can and licks a long, slow line between them.

Laurent makes a broken noise, one which—to Damen’s delight—he does not even try to stifle. He does startle, but Damen’s hands keep him in place. He relaxes into them when he realizes, and Damen aches with sudden emotion. He holds Laurent steady as he licks away the oil, varying the pressure, alternating between using the flat of his tongue and the tip. After that first helpless sound, Laurent is silent through it; but his breath comes out in ragged, hitching little gasps, and now his body strains toward Damen rather than away.

When Damen presses his tongue past the ring of muscle, breaching him ever so gently, Laurent whispers his name; then repeats it like a mantra as he continues, increasing in intensity if not volume: _Damen—Damen—Damen!_ Damen forgets about the wager entirely. All he can think about is how Laurent will sound with Damen inside of him, how he will _feel_ , and he wants it more than he has ever wanted anything. He pulls back when he can’t stand it any longer, pushing gently at Laurent’s hip until he rolls over.

Damen grabs Laurent’s abandoned water cup from the side table, swishing a mouthful around before spitting it out. He’s going to want to kiss Laurent again for this next bit, and it seems a little rude not to freshen his mouth somehow, even with Laurent being so freshly washed. When he bends over Laurent to reach for the oil, Laurent opens his mouth to speak, and Damen waits for some smug remark; but then he closes it again and simply watches Damen.

This time Damen pours out quite a bit more of the oil, unconcerned when a little spills against Laurent’s breastbone. He swipes his fingers through the spill, slicking them all over, and taking the surreptitious opportunity to trail one slippery fingertip over Laurent’s nipple. Laurent’s pale skin is flushed all the way up his chest and throat, his eyes overbright as he watches. When Damen leans down to kiss him, he draws his legs up in unspoken invitation.

Damen probes, gently, as their lips meet. He takes his time, but the first finger slides in easily, and Laurent arches up against him so eagerly that he soon adds the second. He makes a rhythm of it, fingers and tongue, brushing often over that spot that makes Laurent go hazy and distracted, lips going momentarily slack beneath Damen’s before he remembers they are kissing again. Damen draws it out despite his own impatience, because he is addicted to the way Laurent responds.

Laurent’s body goes tight again. It’s easier to tell, this time, that it’s not a natural reaction but an intentional one; Damen realizes he’s close, but holding himself back. Of course Laurent wouldn’t make this easy. He’s so sensitive he could come with his cock untouched, with just Damen’s fingers in him and Damen’s mouth on his, but he _won’t_ because he doesn’t bet to lose.

Laurent is, he thinks, just going to have to be disappointed.

He kisses his way downwards, and Laurent half sits up, resting on his elbows. His cheeks are pink, his breathing heavy. “Stop. Stalling. Or I _swear_ to you, Damianos, Vere and Akielos will be at war in the morning.”

“I’m not,” Damen wheedles. “One more finger, just to be sure.” Perhaps he is stalling, but only a little. And it’s no more cheating than Laurent—after all, if it were only up to Damen’s skill, he would have won the wager easily already. Perhaps neither of them bet to lose.

He does ease another finger into Laurent, who is so aroused now there’s barely any resistance, an easy stretch. But at the same time, he does another thing he’s never done before: closes his mouth over Laurent’s cock. He thinks he’s figured out a little something about Laurent’s desires; Laurent likes to be surprised.

There’s no art to it. He just does what he thinks might feel good, licking around the head, sucking gently. His fingers move with more intent, focusing on Laurent’s pleasure; and though Laurent locks down tighter, shifting less and less, Damen knows that means he is doing well. Besides, if Laurent is busy biting his tongue against the pleasure, he won’t be able to argue that Damen is cheating, that he’s drawn this out too long, that it is _more_ than time.

Still, Laurent’s iron will is a thing to be reckoned with. At the last, for a moment, Damen thinks they are at an impasse; unbelievably, Laurent is still holding out, though he looks absolutely wrecked with the effort. Then, inspired, Damen reaches up and grabs Laurent’s hand, his thumb rubbing a soft circle over the palm—and Laurent is lost, swearing and spilling into his mouth.

Damen chokes a little, despite himself. He rallies, though, lifting his head in time to receive the full brunt of Laurent’s displeasure—even loose-limbed and debauched, shivering in the aftermath of what _had_ to be an earth-shattering orgasm, Laurent has a glare like a Veretian winter wind. “Next time I will—I will have to be—clearer about the rules.”

“I believe the forfeit was,” Damen says, unapologetic, “that we could wait as long as I liked?”

“That was the agreement.” Laurent’s tone is downright chilly, though Damen doesn’t doubt he’ll be forgiven.

“How does _now_ strike you?” Damen moves over him, immensely pleased to see the surprise register on Laurent’s features before his expression goes smooth and smug again.

“Are you certain I’m ready? You might have to torture me for awhile longer, to make entirely sure.” He spreads his legs wider, though, as Damen moves in against him, welcoming him with his body if not his words.

Damen takes his time, oiling and lining himself up, resettling Laurent to a slightly more convenient position; but when he slides in, it’s with little fanfare. Laurent’s eyes slide shut, and he lets out a little puff of breath, his lips parted in what might be an _oh._ There’s a little resistance, because Damen _is_ big and fingers aren’t quite the same thing, but Laurent adjusts easily enough.

It’s Damen’s turn now to fight for control. “Is that...is it all right?”

Laurent opens his eyes again, his unbelievably blue eyes, and looks at Damen as if he’s speaking Vaskian. “If I’d known,” he says, crisp and sharp, “that I would have to coax you this much, I would have started much earlier in the evening. _Take what you want,_ Damen.”

Damen does. Laurent feels—good around him, so good, but more than that—he feels _right_. Not just being inside him, but the way he moves beneath Damen, moves _with_ Damen, holding his gaze. He’s still quiet. Damen isn’t used to quiet lovers, but he will _get_ used to it, is already learning to love the way Laurent’s sudden stillnesses and skipped breaths mean the same as another’s shouted encouragement.

Laurent’s cock twitches once or twice as Damen moves in him, but stays soft; Damen briefly has the presence of mind to imagine what it will be like when they are both in the same state, both still hard and wanting when he takes Laurent. Then he is coming, driven past his limit by the thought, and Laurent is kissing him, and everything is good, the best, _perfect._

~

Laurent has to help him dress. Damen is punch-drunk, love-drunk, far more inebriated than he ever was from the wine; he fumbles even his simple fibula pin, and distracts Laurent with kisses when Laurent leans in to do it for him.

At last he is more or less decent, though his hair is in disarray and Laurent’s affectionate gestures apparently do not extend to fixing it. The sky beyond Auguste’s balcony is still dark, though it’s getting on towards dawn; they part ways at the door, and Damen encounters no one but servants and guards in the corridors.

The rooms he has been given are not far. He thinks of Laurent, easing into a bed that he imagines to be more or less like Auguste’s, though perhaps with less red and gold in the coverlet; he wishes he could have followed, stolen in beside him for a few brief hours’ rest before they have to wake and fête the happy couple. But here in his own room he doesn’t want to sleep, though it has been a long night, and it’s about to be a longer day.

He is luminous, full of joy, and sleep would only dampen that.

Instead he lights a candle, inks a quill, and sets about teaching himself to write a love letter.


End file.
